


For Good

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [15]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Healing, Magical Realism, Martin is a horrible father, Whump, Young Malcolm Bright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27024760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Prompt No 15. INTO THE UNKNOWNPossession |Magical Healing| Science Gone WrongMalcolm discovers he's a healer when he's ten years old.When he finds The Girl in the Box — bloody and broken and crying for help — and he lays his hands on her, it feels like it's the most natural thing in the world. He doesn't even know what he's doing or what he expects to happen, but he moves instinctively, resting one hand on her forehead and the other over her heart.Things get...fuzzy, after that.
Series: October? No, I think you mean Whumptober [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947595
Comments: 22
Kudos: 75
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	For Good

Malcolm discovers he's a healer when he's ten years old. 

When he finds The Girl in the Box — bloody and broken and crying for help — and he lays his hands on her, it feels like it's the most natural thing in the world. He doesn't even know what he's doing or what he expects to happen, but he moves instinctively, resting one hand on her forehead and the other over her heart. 

Things get...fuzzy, after that. 

He remembers a nearly blinding light and a devastating pain that he's certain was trying to rip him apart at the seams and destroy him. He remembers a sickly sweet smell and a damp cloth over his face.

And then he remembers nothing.

The rest of that day is buried so deep in his subconscious that he'd need a backhoe to try to uncover it.

He doesn't actually find out what happened until nearly a week later.

He wakes up in the hospital three days after discovering the girl. He's told, at first, that he'd been hit by a car. That his dozens of broken bones and the deep lacerations littering his body were caused by the car that slammed into him before driving away into the night.

He knows that isn't right. But he's kept so doped up for the first few days after he wakes that he can't vocalize his doubts. Can't communicate at all, outside of desperate glances to the doctors and nurses who come to check on him.

His father stays with him the entire time, upping the dosages of his pain medication anytime he becomes lucid enough to speak.

Malcolm heals quickly — too quickly; it draws the attention of the doctors and nurses and they begin to talk. After six days in the hospital, Martin decides to transfer him home. No one questions the move. He _is_ a doctor, after all.

It's only once he's home that Martin begins to taper off the painkillers being pumped into his veins. Not enough to leave him in agony, but enough that he can think. Can talk.

But only when Martin is around.

His father ensures they're alone in the room and that Malcolm isn't drugged out of his mind before he finally graces Malcolm with an explanation.

"You remember the tales I told you when you were younger, my boy?" Martin says quietly, perched on the side of Malcolm's bed. "About the time back before magic began to disappear from the world."

Malcolm nods. The stories had filled him with wonder and made him wish that magic was still as common as it was all those years ago. 

"Malcolm," Martin says with a gleam in his eye and a touch of pride on his face that fills Malcolm with a bubbling warmth that spreads from his chest all through the rest of his battered body, "You're a healer, my boy."

Malcolm can't believe it. The healers were the highest class of magicians in the world. Kings, emperors, and presidents sought out healers and paid them handsomely for their services, as few were known to exist at any given time. 

His father always told him that one hundred years wasn't such a long time ago (magic began, inexplicably, to disappear around the turn of the twentieth century), but to Malcolm, it seemed like millenia.

Until now. 

"I've always known you were special, Malcolm," Martin says, gently taking hold of his hand and smiling down beatifically. "You and I are going to make quite a team. Oh, the things we can do together..."

Malcolm's eyebrows draw together, fuzzy memories poking at the corners of his mind. He isn't _entirely_ sure what's real and what was just fevered dreams brought on by his 'accident', but there's one thing he knows for sure.

"What about the girl?" He asks slowly. He's certain he found a girl — a girl who was hurt really bad — in a box, near his father's work room.

"Oh, Malcolm, my boy," Martin says, brushing away the question with a wave of the hand, like it doesn't matter. Like _she_ doesn't matter. "The important thing is that you understand how vital it is to keep this a secret. People will try to take advantage of your gift, if it becomes common knowledge. They'll turn on you like that," Martin snaps his fingers loudly, startling Malcolm. "You need to keep this hidden, Malcolm. It can be our little secret."

"But…" Malcolm pauses to consider the words, "How can I help people if I hide what I am?"

The sudden flash of irritation that contorts Martin's face is gone so quickly that Malcolm can't be sure he saw it at all. 

"I'll tell you what, son," Martin smiles sweetly but the expression doesn't sit quite right on his face, like it's been painted on by an inexpert hand, "we'll explore this gift of yours together. I'll gather some people you can help, people who have been hurt. We'll start small, and then see how much your body can handle. How's that sound, hmm?"

Malcolm isn't sure. The words seem right, but there's something about the tone that makes the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The way Martin is staring at him the same way he studies the anatomical figures in his medical texts isn't helping, either.

Martin doesn't wait for an answer, just pushes to his feet and ruffles Malcolm's hair. "Your mother and Ainsley are going to the Hamptons next week. Perhaps you and I can go on a camping trip while they're away. I have no doubt we can find a way to test your new abilities without anyone finding out. Remember this absolutely must remain our little secret."

The next two weeks are a blur for Malcolm, hazy memories wrapped up in that same sickly sweet scent as before, when he found that girl. There are injuries to his body that he can't remember, can't explain, but his gift means he heals at an accelerated rate so it seems silly to make a fuss.

Until one night, he remembers just enough. Enough to make a phone call.

And before he knows it, a kindly-looking officer is standing in the foyer of his house as Martin makes him tea.

Malcolm limps over (every bone in his leg had been shattered somehow — the details are unsurprisingly unclear in his mind — but he's healing quite nicely) and looks up at the officer.

"What's up, kid?" The man says with a twinkle in his eye. 

"You should take out your gun." Malcolm says slowly. He's battling a sedative that his father made him take not long ago, insisting he heals better when he sleeps deeply.

"Excuse me?" The officer doesn't seem angry, so Malcolm presses on.

"My father, he's going to kill you," Malcolm says. He wants to say more, to explain about the girl he found, to tell the officer about the fuzzy memories in his head, but then his father is there, walking over with his Cheshire cat smile and before the officer can even turn his attention back to Martin, one of mother's ornate steak knives is buried deep in the officer's stomach.

Martin pulls the knife out and stabs it in twice more in quick succession, dropping the officer to his knees as he grasps at the wound.

"Now look what you did, my boy," Martin practically snarls, though Malcolm can tell he's doing his best to stay calm. "It didn't have to be like this. Now go to bed like a good boy and dad will take care of this little mess that you made."

The officer, curled up on his side and trying to hold his insides inside, looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes, but all Malcolm can seem to do is stand there, frozen, with tears streaming down his face. His father nudges him with his clean hand, leading him to the stairs.

"Go on up, Malcolm," Martin says. "I'll be up in a moment to give you something stronger to help you sleep. Don't worry, my boy, everything will be just fine."

Malcolm goes up the stairs, just enough until he's hidden from view and can peek down from above. And then he waits. 

He waits until his father finishes making a call and then looks down at his hand, still holding the bloody knife, and huffs an irritated breath.

He waits until his father walks away and he can hear the water running in the kitchen.

And then he makes his way down the stairs, fighting to keep his eyes open as the medicine his father gave him really takes hold. The officer looks bad — really bad — and Malcolm can tell he doesn't have long, but he also knows that, injured as he already is, he might not survive taking this man's wounds.

But then the officer slowly opens his eyes, looking up at Malcolm with an expression of forgiveness.

"Not your f-fault, kid," the officer forces out between pained breaths. "Now r-run."

Malcolm's mind is telling him to listen to the man; tells him to run far, far away, where Martin will never find him ever again.

Instead, he listens to his heart.

He lays his hands on the man and focuses his mind, pulling the stab wounds into himself, thinking that, just maybe, that's where they belonged all along. 

The pain is unbearable.

He drops to the ground with a scream caught in his lungs, but the pain is white hot and radiating from his stomach through his entire body and he doesn't have the energy to force the sound out. He doesn't even have the energy to hold onto his stomach as the life drains out of him in hot rivers of blood.

The officer's frantic words float over him, but Malcolm can't seem to grasp onto them. He just hopes the man runs away now, before his father comes back and sees what he's done.

Martin is going to be very angry with him.

But then he hears a commotion just next to him, yelling and fighting and something heavy hitting the ground. With the last of his strength, he drags one eye open to see what's happening.

The officer, soaked in blood but seemingly fine, has his father laid out on the ground and is cuffing his hands behind his back, holding Martin firmly down while he talks into his radio and looks at Malcolm with an expression that he can't quite decipher.

Malcolm doesn't fight it when his eyelid falls closed and sleep comes to claim him.

He's just happy he was able to use his magic for good.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo...I've never written anything like this before. But I think I may come back to this world when whumptober is over to continue this story with Malcolm all grown up and part of the team, because I'm kinda digging this magical realism thing!
> 
> Big thanks to Kate and Caitie for convincing me that I could write this!


End file.
